by: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
      HY didst thou promise such a beauteous day
      And make me travel forth without my cloak,
      To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
      Hiding thy brav'ry in their rotten smoke?
      'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break
      To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
      For no man well of such a salve can speak
      That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
      Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
      Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
      Th' offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
      To him that bears the strong offense's cross.
      Ah, but those tears are pearl which thy love sheeds,
      And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.